( a voice, one that draws reassurance: as always, vanessa doesn't sound particularly troubled in this place, but more as though she's struck down with a bone-weary tiredness, an exhaustion at the price of horror. back at the carnival, she had thought the same thing about her; the way that vanessa holds herself, the way she carries herself, seems to speak of years of a burden that she can't, or won't, put into words. perhaps she's so good at recognizing something like it because at times it feels like the world is pushed down on her own shoulders--they wear it differently, and vanessa is far more charming when it comes to collecting herself. even her costume is beautiful in a dangerous, jarring sort of way.

her arms press up against her chest, tucked in there as though she could make herself even smaller--but curiosity wins out against common sense, and without thinking, one hand is reaching up to the snakes on vanessa's mask, idly tracing one slender head with one slender fingernail. it seems to calm her, somehow, touching something that isn't herself or the corpses strung up from the ceiling. it doesn't do anything about the creaking sound of them. )

There's no way back. ( in a breathless voice, like she's trying to sound amused and failing miserably. ) There's no way back, but I don't want to disturb them.

( she hasn't heard a single thing in this city. there's no lifestream, no one pulling at her, no one whispering, wanting, begging. but here, in this room, this hallway, in this path forward, she hears everything and nothing; is she imagining things, or is there someone crying in one of these bundles, muffled by dirty sheet and rope? )

We can't do anything about them, right? ( her hands come down, reaching for vanessa's hands--hers are a little cold, chilled from the frigid air of the room. it feels almost like being inside a freezer. ) We can't help them, can we?